"That's very likely, isn't it?" he said, smiling. "No, my dear, that's not the reason." He paused as though searching for words, then went on quietly: "The silver chord is getting a bit frayed, you know, Nan. I'm an old man, and I'm just beginning to know it." She caught her breath quickly and her face whitened. Then she forced a laugh. "Nonsense, Uncle David! Kitty always declares you're the youngest of us all." His eyes smiled back at her. "Unfortunately, my dear, Time takes no account of a juvenile spirit. His job is with this body of ours. But the spirit," he added dreamingly, "and its youthfulness--that's for eternity." "But you look quite well--_quite_ well," she insisted. And her manner was the more positive because in her inmost mind she thought she could detect a slight increase of that frail appearance she had first noticed on Penelope's wedding-day. "I've had hints, Nan--Nature's wireless. So I saw Jermyn Carter a few weeks back--" "What did he say?" She interrupted swiftly. "That at my age a man mustn't expect his heart to be the same as in his twenties." A silence fell between them. Then Nan's hand stole out and clasped his. She had never imagined a world without this good comrade in it. The bare thought of it brought a choking lump into her throat, robbing her of words. Presently St. John spoke again. "I've nothing to grizzle about. I've known love and I've known friendship--the two biggest things in life. And, after all, since . . . since she went, I've only been waiting. The world, without her, has never been quite the same." "I know," she whispered. "You Davenant women," he went on more lightly, "are never loved and forgotten." "And we don't love--and forget," said Nan in a low voice. St. John looked at her with eyes that held a very tender comprehension. "Tell me, Nan, was it--Peter Mallory?" She met his glance bravely for a moment. "Yes," she answered at last, very quietly. "It was Peter." With a sudden shudder she bent forward and covered her face with her hands. "And I can't forget," she said hoarsely. A long, heavy silence fell between them. "Then why--" began Lord St. John. Nan lifted her head. "Why did I promise Roger?" she broke in. "Because it seemed the only way. I--I was afraid! And then there was Penelope--and Ralph. . . . Oh, it was a ghastly mistake. I know now. But--but there's Roger . . . he cares . . ." "Yes. There's Roger," he said gravely. "And you've given him your word. You can't draw back now." There was a note of sternness in the old man's voice--the sternness of a man who has a high creed of honour and who has always lived up to it, no matter what it cost. "Remember, Nan, no Davenant was ever a coward in the face of difficulties. They always pulled through somehow." "Or ran away--like Angele de Varincourt." "She only ran from one difficulty into the arms of a hundred others. No wrong can be righted by another wrong."